The Mojave Trek
by ArcTangent
Summary: (Set after the events of New Vegas) Ex NCR ranger and private contractor Ridley Cooper gets a seemingly easy job with a surprisingly high reward from an anonymous source. But, in this scarred world, nothing's as simple as it seems.


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**THE MOJAVE TREK**

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**Chapter One: Brief Introductions**

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War. War never changes. No one knows this better than I because I've seen almost every side of it. I've drank with the victors and mourned with the defeated. I've commanded my fair share of men and been commanded by a fair share as well. I've looked burned towns, pillaged settlements, and looked a man straight in the eyes before killing him. I've seen both starry eyed rookies looking to make a name for themselves, seeking glory through battle. I've also seen the names of those same rookies etched into their grave just before they're lowered into the ground.

If there's one thing I've learned in all my time fighting under the NCR, it's that legion or bear, ranger or rookie, we're all the same. We all fight for what we believe and will fight for that belief, no matter how low it takes us. We keep on fighting because we genuinely believe that our way is the best. Our way is the only way, our way or Armageddon. But, in the end, none of us are in the right, not a single one of us.

That's why, after seven years of service, I retired from the NCR Rangers. My convictions had changed; the NCR flag no longer suited my beliefs. They didn't fight to keep me. I had given them seven good years. The NCR handed me my check, which was hardly surmountable to the blood I spilled for them, and sent me on my way, just like that. I even still have a couple of friends still serving that I'll have a drink with once and a while.

Now I work for myself, of sorts, operating from a small office I rented in New Vegas. I'm a private contractor of sorts. People pay a small fee and I help them with their various problems, whatever they may be. The jobs can range anywhere from killing a couple geckos to tracking down and capturing a serial killer. As long as the pay is good and the risk is worth it, you can count on me to get a job done.

Three days ago, I got a job offer. The contractor wished to stay anonymous, as the majority of my employers often do. The assignment was fairly simple; I was to meet a young woman at the Nipton Roads Reststop and escort her back to New Vegas. Apparently, she's running with a caravan, so supplies will be plentiful and the company should be nice. And even though the walk is long, the pay this mysterious contractor is offering is almost unbelievable. How could I refuse?

So, after a week of travel, I find myself sitting at the small rest stop, waiting for this important caravan to arrive so I can meet this woman.

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The hot desert sun smothers me in a blanket of heat as I lean up against the small Nipton Reststop. The caravan is three hours late. Three hours. That only means two things in the ruthless Mojave, either they stopped to rest somewhere for an extra day, in which case I should find some shelter to wait the night out, or, the most likely reason, they're dead.

That's what happens in the Mojave, unfortunately. The minute you step outside, no matter for how long, you're putting your life at risk. Every time you close your eyes to sleep, you're in danger. Every time you stop for a drink, it could be your last.

I have a theory on why there's so much violence in this world, one that I like to keep to myself. Most people would laugh at me or call me a preacher. But I think they're just too scared to accept the truth. I think they don't want to know what could have been because of how things are now.

You see, after society was wiped out, the first vault dwellers to emerge had a once in an eternity chance. For once, there were no social norms, no laws, and no government. One could kill anyone or anything in the name of survival. They could do anything they wanted because it was a 'dog eat dog' world.

But most people don't want to think that they've killed all for naut. The excuse of survival is the only thing keeping them alive. If they were to realize that the terrible things they've done weren't out of necessity, then they would end up like the once great Master did, dead by their own hands.

I've seen the groups that people have created, and I know that if we really wanted to, we could have rebuilt society and began anew. The truth is, people don't want society back. We kill and plunder because that's the true face of human kind. As much as we deny or try and avoid it, that's the reason murderers rule the Mojave.

I silently hope to myself that my escorts are not already dead, because I need the money from this contract. "Maybe one of their Brahmins collapsed of exhaustion and it slowed them down," I whisper as I pull out the one cigarette from a pack in my trench coat, an old souvenir from my days as a ranger. Using a matchstick from a box I had found lying around, I lit the cigarette and took in a deep breath. It tickles my throat as I hold it in and then exhale, letting the smoke out with a deep sigh.

As I continue enjoying my last cigarette, I hear a gruff and threatening voice ask, "What's a ranger doing all the way out here?"

I slowly turn to the source and see a ghoul wearing leather armor and an aviator cap holding me at gunpoint, sneering at me. "You should know I don't like rangers. In fact, there's not a lot I hate more," he spits. I don't let his threat faze me, though. Keeping a stone face is a necessity in the wasteland. The animals out here, they can smell fear from a mile away.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not a ranger," I calmly tell him, hoping he'll lower his gun just enough so that I can tear it from his hands. The ghoul looks at me, almost confused, but doesn't lower his gun. "Don't play games with me! I know what that black armor and that trench coat means!" I can see his trigger finger tense, just itching to put a bullet in me. But I don't intend to die now.

Thinking on my feet, I suddenly lunge forward and knock the barrel away from me, right before it goes of with a deafening CRACK. The ghoul is a bit startled by the noise and leaves an opening for me. I take it.

With all the power I can muster, I lunge at the ghoul and tackle him to the dusty earth. Pulling out my revolver, I push the barrel on his forehead and snarl, "Not so great from the other side, is it?"

"Go to hell," he growls back, struggling to get away from me. But I've had enough training to know that if you put pressure on the chest, your opponent isn't getting up. I dig my knees into his shoulders, making sure he can't reach for anything. "Who are you?" I ask him as he continues to struggle, "what is it that you want?"

"I believe he's here for the same thing you are." I hear another voice say

Looking away from the ghoul, I see a large mutant standing over the ghoul and I. He's one ugly son of a bitch, but then again, all mutants are. Seeing as he hasn't made a move to kill my new 'friend' or me he's probably from Jacobstown, a civilized mutant settlement in the Mojave. The mutants there tend to be a little more diplomatic then the rest of their brutish kind, but can still be violent when provoked.

To confirm my suspicions, I ask the mutant, "You from Jacobstown?" The creature merely nods. "You with the ghoul?" The creature shakes his head.

"I've been hired to help escort a caravan. Jacobstown is looking for friendly relationships with outsiders, and we figured lending a helping hand could get us in good with this caravan," he tells me, still not moving to break the hold I have on the ghoul.

I stare at him in disbelief. Is he here for the same job as me? No, he's just here for the caravan. I'm here for the girl only; the caravan is none of my concern. I suddenly feel the ghoul struggle from beneath me, as if a burst of rage has overtaken him. He yells at the mutant, "You trying to take my job, pal?! I'm the one they hired, not you!"

"From what I heard, they've hired more then one mercenaries," the mutant answers calmly, "Look, here comes another." The giant points over to a man in power armor, who's approaching us.

"Brotherhood of Steel," I mutter to myself as I get off the ghoul. Suddenly, the deformed maniac became the least of my concerns. These technology-worshiping cultists have hated the NCR ever since it was established. If the paladin recognizes my armor and coat, he'll probably bear more ill will towards me than the ghoul.

As the paladin gets closer to the rest stop, he notices us and draws his weapon threateningly. I quickly draw my revolver and aim it back towards him, even though it won't do much to penetrate that power armor of his. "What is your business here?!" I hear him yell to us.

Before I can respond with a bullet, the mutant puts his giant hands on my shoulder and says, "No need to resolve this with violence." I'm stunned. The super mutant is the most civil out of all of us. "We are not here to fight you, nor do we wish to filch your contract!" the mutant yells to the paladin, "We were all hired for the same job!"

Surprisingly, this seems to do the job. I watch as the paladin reluctantly lowers his weapon and approaches us. I can tell he's glaring under his helmet at me, but the mutant is right. We can't do this job if we're constantly fighting each other.

"Someone want to explain why we were all hired to escort one caravan?" the ghoul, who seems to have forgotten all about me now that a super mutant and a paladin are here, sneers as he dusts himself off. I nod in agreement. It is strange that a company would hire four mercenaries to protect one caravan.

The paladin laughs at the ghoul, though, who begins grinding his teeth in anger. "Do you not even know WHO we're escorting? This is the North Washington Trading Company; of course they'll spare no expense."

The ghoul still seems to be in the dark, but I know exactly what the paladin is speaking of. I just didn't realize the largest trading company in the east would dare take a trip to the Mojave. This desert eats merchants alive. "They're probably here to sell supplies to the Crimson Caravan, who'll distribute their wares across the New California Republic," the mutant speculates, "Jacobstown is hoping that they can help set us up with a couple suppliers as well as spread the word to mutants in the east, who may be looking for a home."

"They're fools if you ask me," the ghoul laughs, "everyone knows that the most high tech stuff comes from the east. That's probably why tin man over here wants in on this."

"Our brothers from the east wish to assist in our survival. There is no shame in accepting their help," the paladin huffs indignantly, his pride obviously still hurt.

I turn to check the desolate roads. Still, not a single soul in sight. "Looks like we might be here a while." The ghoul groans audibly and the paladin lets out a "Hmph."

The mutant merely sighs, probably disgusted by our human impatience. "How about we get to know each other while we wait, then," he suggests to us, "We're going to be traveling together for a while, since this caravan will most likely end up stopping at most of the towns along the way."

"Hah, way I see it, they've already been raped and murdered by bandits and junkies," the ghoul laughs. We all glare at him for his distasteful joke. As much as I hate to admit it, though, his vulgar statement is becoming more of a reality with every second. Seeing our annoyed faces, the ghoul's smile drops as he grumbles, "Tom Molluck…"

"I am Calvin Thompson," the super mutant tells us, giving a small, polite bow.

The paladin glares at John, reluctant to give out his name, and understandably so. The Brotherhood of Steel's position on ghouls and super mutants is not the most accepting. If one of us were to leak his name to anyone else, then he could be shamed by the rest of the Brotherhood for working with what they believe to be abominations.

"I am Joseph Taylor, but you will refer to me as Star Paladin Taylor. I will not accept anything but."

This was a surprise to me. I would have expected the brotherhood to send an average paladin for an escort job, not one of their highest-ranking officials. This meant that the items the caravan is carrying are valuable. Once again, my hope for their survival dwindles.

Now everyone is looking at me, waiting for my introduction. I figure if a Star Paladin gives out his name, I'm obliged to as well. Besides, any enemies of mine already know who I am and probably know where to find me. I'm no ghost.

"Ridley Cooper," I answer, "private contractor and retired ranger."

Usually, mentioning being an ex ranger either earns me a lot of respect or a lot of death threats. But, all three of them knew from first glance that I was a ranger, so telling them won't make much of a difference.

"Ah yes, I knew I recognized your voice," Calvin exclaims, snapping his fingers to emphasize the realization, "you helped our town deal with a bandit problem several years ago, didn't you?"

To be honest, I have done so many jobs that I don't even remember most of them. I hazily recall defending a group of mutants from some angry remnants of what was once the Great Khans, but I don't know if it was Jacobstown or not. "Yeah," I lie anyways, "I remember that."

Calvin smiled and gave me a heavy pat on the back. "I never did get to thank you for your squad's help. Not many would risk themselves to save a town full of super mutants."

"Yeah, well we're all just trying to survive here. I figure you lot are no different," I tell him. "Plus, those who pick on the innocent are scum, especially during these times." I reach for my carton of cigarettes to find that I've already forgotten that I had smoked my last. Frustrated, I crumple the cardboard box up and throw it to the side. Where the hell are they?

Just when I was about to give up hope, I hear the sound of footsteps and the lowing of Brahmin off in the distance. Using my left hand to shield my eyes, I look out and see a large group approaching us, much large then I expected.

Tom whistles loudly. "Damn, I'd like to meet the bandits with enough balls to jump a group this big." As much as I hate to admit it, the ghoul was right. Who the hell would try and attack a group this large?

"Powder gangers most likely," Paladin Taylor says, "Those neanderthals still have their hands on more explosives then I'd like to imagine."

I can only let out a deep sigh of relief as I drop my hands to my sides. My contract was safe. And, from what I can tell at this distance, the caravan seems generally unharmed. The packs on their brahmins are enormous, probably stocked with all sorts of food, water, and other essentials. I can only spot two weapons bags, though, which was surprising. Most caravans carry as many weapons as possible, since a gun is what demands the best price out here.

Ahead of the group, I see a man running towards us, using one hand to hold his stormchaser hat in place. As he gets closer, I can hear him faintly yelling, though I can't seem to make out what, exactly, he's trying to tell us.

"Any of you hear him?" Tom asks grumpily. The mutant and I shake our heads, while Paladin Taylor merely laughs.

"My helmet has a built in lip reader," he tells us haughtily, causing Tom to let out an annoyed growl, "One of the many wonders technology has to offer. It truly is a miracle wha-"

"Can you just tell us what he's saying," I cut him off, not wanting to hear whatever machine worshipping garbage he has to say.

"Caveman," I hear him mutter. "The man is saying-"

"SORRY!"

I jump slightly and turn around to see the leading merchant had made it over here already. As he bends over to catch his breath, he pants, "Sorry… for… being late! *huff* We got caught up when one of our members got stung by a radscorpion and we had to take him to a clinic."

"It's no problem at all," Calvin tells him in an understanding voice, "All that matters is that you're all safe."

"Thank you… uh…"

"Calvin, Calvin Thompson," he tells the man, extending his hand as a friendly gesture. The man smiles widely and takes the mutants large hand and shakes it. Snickering to myself, I watch as the man rubs his now slightly red hand after pulling it away from the mutant's.

"Firm grip," he laughs nervously. The man then turns to the rest of us and asks, "You all must be the men Cody hired, correct?" He looks us over and then scrunches his face when he gets to me. The man walks closer and begins to examine me, making me feel uncomfortable and a bit irritated. "Is something the matter?" I finally ask, just wanting him to back up a bit and give me some space.

"That's strange," he answers, "I could have sworn Cody said he only hired three men."

This instantly earns me suspicious looks from everyone else. Great, now they think I'm a bandit. Luckily, I always come prepared. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out a small envelope.

"This is the letter containing the contract I received two weeks ago." I turn it to the back, where there is an ink stamp of what used to be the U.S. capitol building. "Is this not your insignia?"

The man takes the letter and closely inspects it for a minute. He then hands it back to me and gives me an apologetic smile. "Heh, sorry! I guess I was just remembering things wrong. Let me show you to the group!"

He motions for us to follow him towards the approaching caravan. As we walk over, I begin to think about my mission. The more I think about it, the more suspicious it becomes. Why would I be hired to protect a specific woman if the rest were hired to protect the entire caravan? Why didn't the caravan leader expect my protection during their journey? Hopefully it was just the man's memory…

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**A/N: I hope you all liked the beginning of my story! Please leave reviews, it helps to know if people are reading your stories!**


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